


It's raining men

by DeVereWinterton



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, It's a whump!, MFMMwhumptober, Post-Season/Series 02, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-04 23:06:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16356008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: Phryne opened the front door with her usual flair, enthusiasm and almost addictive excitement. However, her charming smile faltered the moment she spotted the Inspector, standing on her covered porch.For the MFMM Whumptober 2018 prompt ‘Fever.’





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this a post season 2 AU and it’s probably autumn-ish. No Compton, no Concetta. There is rain. I also was in desperate need of a punny title to get me through the whump. I’m _not_ sorry.
> 
> I _do_ apologize for the lack of whump angstiness. My brain can’t handle angst right now. Also, many thanks to 'my' beta Aubrina!

 

“Jack!”

Phryne opened the front door with her usual flair, enthusiasm and almost addictive excitement. However, her charming smile faltered the moment she spotted the Inspector, standing on her covered porch. She flinched as a flash of light briefly and quite suddenly illuminated the pitch black night sky, the lightning bisecting the darkness before a loud thunderclap roared to life almost immediately after, shaking the leaves on the trees. The storm was close, then.

Though it had been pouring all day, it seemed the worst of the storm was now upon them. Jack had been unusually late for their celebratory nightcap (or nightcaps, as was often the case) but she hadn’t thought anything of it. He was a grown man, and would always be welcome in her home, regardless of the time.

He was probably just wrapping up the paperwork on their latest solved case - rounding up a gang of rhinoceros horn smugglers. Phryne had found this case to be particularly amusing, especially considering where they’d stashed some of the contraband. Jack would surely deny it to his dying day, but she was positive a small smile had been lurking near the corner of his mouth upon this piquant discovery.

Right now, Jack wasn't exactly smiling. He was, however, positively dripping from his ruined fedora down to his soaked brown leather shoes.

He looked like a drowned rat, a wet dog… a drenched, handsome man, standing on her doorstep, in dire need of someone to help warm him up, surely?

“Miss Fisher,” he greeted in that deep voice of his that had taken on a raspy edge.

She loved the way he said her name, however formal he would insist on addressing her. It was spoken as though it were both an admonishment for some kind of trouble she'd gotten the two of them into, and a caress across her sensitive skin. An inquiry, an unquenched curiosity in those two words that would always make her pause, would raise pleasurable goosebumps all over her body.

Now that she took a closer look at him, it appeared he was rather out of breath. There was a smile in his eyes, a twinkle in those infinite pools of blue.

“I hope I’m not too late?”

She smiled back at him.

“You know the answer to that question, Jack,” she rebutted kindly before stepping aside to allow him entry into her home. “Now, come inside - don’t give me that look, Jack Robinson - you’ll catch your death of cold, standing out there.”

She missed his amused smirk as she all but dragged him into the house.

 

***

 

Closing the front door behind him with a soft click, Phryne realised this was probably the first time that she was alone in the house with Jack. Unbeknownst to him, Jane was on the continent for her Grand tour; she’d left shortly after the Christmas in July celebration. Dot was visiting her mother and Mr. Butler… well, Mr. Butler was doing whatever it was butlers did on their night off. She’d thought it prudent not to ask but hoped he was somewhere safe. This rainstorm did not look as though it was going to let up any time soon.

Now, it wasn't as if she had _arranged_ for the house to be empty, but she had to admit, it was convenient.

When Jack had come to her that night, after Fletcher’s arrest, and told her in not so many words that he planned on doing the ignoble thing indeed, right there at the foot of her stairs, it had piqued her interest greatly. She wanted to know what being ignoble entailed (though she had a pretty good idea). Preferably sooner than later, as patience wasn’t exactly her strong suit. Jack, on the other hand, was the veritable embodiment of patience - as proven to her again when he had resisted her invitation at the chalet. It was beginning to grate on her nerves, not to mention her libido.

Still, he would be worth the wait, her Jack.

She was certain he would come up with a way to compel her kisses that did not involve parasitic greenery. After all, he loved unravelling a bit of mystery as much as she did.

Jack coughed awkwardly, and she realised she’d been staring none too subtly. He’d doffed his wet hat and held it in front of his body as he looked at her, his shoulders slightly slumped. His pomaded hair was still dry and shiny, though probably damp to the touch, and she longed to reach out and confirm that suspicion for herself.

Only then did she notice that his coat was dripping onto the tiled floor. She presumed he had not moved from the spot where he was standing so he wouldn’t drip all down her hallway.

It was just like him, dear man, to consider her staff.

“Did you walk here, Jack?” she inquired amusedly as she approached him to help him shrug out of his wet overcoat, which was now almost the colour of anthracite, rather than its customary slate grey with just a hint of blue.

“I did, though not by choice. My car broke down about halfway on my way from the Station,” he rumbled with his back turned to her, and she took a moment to appreciate the broad definition of his shoulders as they managed to divest him of his overcoat. She decided that it was a damned shame - nay, almost a sin - that he wore a suit jacket all the time.

A blue suit jacket that was decidedly wet through and through, and was clinging to his frame rather faithfully. His blue suit had always been her favourite, and it certainly was now, for very different reasons. She regretfully had to tear her eyes away from the curve of his arse so she could hang his wet coat on the peg. She spread it out the best way she could, and hoped that it would dry sufficiently. She thought it would be salvageable, but perhaps she would ask Mr. Butler if he could work his magic on it.

She hung up Jack’s wet hat beside his coat - giving it a loving stroke as she recalled the look in his eyes when she'd placed it on his head for the first time - and turned around to address him.

“That sounds rather unfortunate, however, I’m not surprised. Honestly, Jack, I keep telling you that--”

“Miss Fisher, as I have told you before; I don’t think the police force could afford to purchase Hispano-Suiza’s for all of their men.”

“Well, no,” she agreed with a tilt of her head, feigning annoyance at his cheeky attitude, all the while pursing her lips to stop herself from smiling. “Not for _all_ of them. Only the best of men should get one, don’t you think?” she asked him as she gave into temptation by placing her hand on his lapel, stroking the wet material between her forefinger and thumb, finding the friction strangely stimulating. She stepped closer and could feel, rather than hear, his sharp intake of breath at her close proximity.

“I suppose that would depend on what one might define as ‘the best of men’, Miss Fisher,” he stated, his chin close to his chest as he observed the tiny movements of her fingers. She nodded in silent agreement when he raised hooded eyes to meet her cerulean ones. His hands were restless, she noted, hanging next to his body, unsure of where they should go. He was no doubt considering what was _appropriate_.

She’d never cared much for propriety, and slipped both hands under his lapels, feeling the warmth of his skin, which was a sharp contrast to the wet layers of clothing that were still clinging to him.

She would have to remedy that. As soon as possible.

The light cream-coloured, semi-transparent fabric of her blouse brushed against his waistcoat as she leaned in even closer. She took in the small droplets of water that still clung to the skin of his face, wondering if he would be particularly offended if she were to lick them off, one by one. A drop near the sharp line of his cheekbone was particularly enthralling.

“Well, the best of men would be polite,” she started, toying with the top button of his waistcoat.

His breathing was laboured, as if he'd run all the way to Wardlow. “Honourable, though… not _too_ honourable,” she joked, giving his waistcoat a soft tug. His hard chest barely brushed her soft breasts causing him to swallow almost audibly.

“He would have a good sense of humour. And a healthy appetite,” she added for good measure, meeting his eyes again as the fingers of her right hand walked a path up his buttoned shirt towards the knot of his tie. She had expected an amused look, but what she found was a gaze that was so heated, something started to stir in her gut. It dropped between her thighs where a steady pulse began. Her mouth went dry as she finished her enumeration, all of a sudden feeling quite breathless.

“And he would always do the right thing.”

“The noble thing?” he asked in a hoarse, low voice that sent a shiver through her body, croaking when he spoke. There was a tension in his jaw that belied his fears when she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer until she could feel her nipples pebble. Not from the cold, but from being this close to him.

“Exactly,” she breathed, her mouth now but a hair's breadth away from his, his philtrum lined up at the perfect place for her to lavish with her hot tongue, and yet… she held back. This time, there was no Aunt Prudence to interrupt them. Looking at him as he stood there in her hallway, his face only partially illuminated by the soft glow of the lamplight, his cheekbones casting harsh shadows… he looked like he already belonged here. Here, with her. As though he’d always been here. Suddenly, she didn't want him to ever leave, which was a very silly notion. She wasn't a kept woman, and she certainly did not intend to ever cage another human being (unless they were criminals). Wanting to keep him here… it was ridiculous, selfish, stupid and _dear_ _God if you don’t kiss me now, Jack Robinson, I swear I’ll--_

Jack suddenly cleared his throat and shifted his weight before stepping back.

She felt incredibly bereft - not to mention cold, paradoxically with him being the one who had to be cold and soaked to the bone - but hoped it didn’t show on her face. Had she pushed him too far already?

“I was wondering if I could use your telephone, Miss Fisher. I’d like to call a mechanic.”

 _Ah._ She supposed that made sense. She felt slightly miffed at his hasty retreat, but waved her hand in the general direction of the telephone all the same, granting him permission.

“Not at this hour, surely? Not all of us burn the midnight oil, Jack,” she teased, a rather weak attempt at re-establishing her equilibrium.

“An old friend of mine runs a shop downtown,” he said, bending down slightly to dial the number.

She noted his wet trousers were sticking to his legs as well, and dear _God_... his well-defined thighs were doing absolutely nothing to dampen her near-constant desire for the man.

“An _old friend_ , you say?”

His brow furrowed in confusion at the emphasis of her words. As he looked up to answer her, the small wrinkle that appeared between his eyebrows was suddenly so familiar and comforting, it tugged at her heartstrings.

“Yes. His name is Mark Anderson. We were school chums.”

“Ah… I see.”

She thought it best not to mention whom she considered to be among her ‘old friends.'

 

***

 

After three futile attempts to ring the mechanic at his home, Jack concluded that the line was most likely dead. It was hardly a surprise to either of them; the storm was still raging outside, and chances were, any number of lines could have been downed. They were fortunate enough to still have power, but that was about it.

Dejectedly, he placed the handset on the cradle, then tried to put his hands inside his trouser pockets, as was his custom. Phryne noticed the slight look of disgust that briefly passed over his face when he realised his trousers were soaked. He shrugged slightly, as though shuffling the wet layers of clothing would somehow warm them up.

“No luck then, Inspector?” she asked him from where she sat on the lower steps of the staircase.

“No.” He sounded upset. “But maybe I could go back out, see if I can get the car going. I think it’s clearing up,” he grumbled as he walked towards the front door to look out of the window.

The words had barely left his mouth when lightning illuminated the hallway, the thunder roaring back to life outside. As his back tensed infinitesimally, she had to resist rolling her eyes at his stubbornness.

“Jack, don’t be ridiculous.” she admonished as she jumped up, approaching him. “Did you lock the car?”

“I shall take that to be a rhetorical question, Miss Fisher.”

“Jack?” A tentative hand reached out to touch his damp shoulder and to her great relief, he allowed it. She’d always hated it when he would shut her out. He was shivering, somehow she doubted it was because of the same reasons she’d experienced goosebumps earlier. He had to be positively freezing. Stubborn man.

_And were his teeth chattering?_

She gently tugged on his shoulder and he turned around to face her, worry etched into the lines on his face.

“You can’t seriously want to go back out into that storm, Jack?” she protested, and he seemed to relax, if only a little. “I’ll call Cec and Bert in the morning. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind taking a look at the car for you.”

Jack raised his eyebrows, opened his mouth to speak, then appeared to think better of it and closed it again. Obviously he wasn't comfortable with the thought of ‘those two red raggers’ going over his police-issued motorcar, but at the very least, he knew better than to turn down her offer.

Or perhaps, was it because she had phrased it in such a way that it implied he might still be here come morning?

She smirked inwardly. _Well then._

To be fair, he couldn’t go anywhere at the present moment, especially in his current condition and the weather being what it was.

“Or you can call your ‘old friend.’ Whatever… tickles your fancy, Inspector,” she flashed him a brief smile, relieved to find his eyes conveying amusement at her obvious double entendre. “For now, however, you’re safe, and most importantly; out of the storm. Your car will still be there in the morning.” She couldn’t know this for certain, but she doubted anyone would be foolish enough to steal a police car.

“Besides, I have a nice, warm fire burning for you which I’m sure would be _much_ more comfortable, and you haven’t even had your nightcap yet,” she reminded him while straightening his tie, which was rather futile at this point. It was a shame, really. She had grown rather fond of this particular blue tie.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and drew her focus immediately to the movement of his throat, the enticing hollow of his neck, his strong jawline…

“Right you are,” he agreed. “After you, Miss Fisher.”

As he mutely followed her into her parlour, he somehow still reminded her of a wet, obedient dog.

She didn't like it at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I suppose Jack could have walked back to the station, could have called for a cab and could have gone home. But where would be the fun in that? After all, he promised he’d come over.
> 
> Also, for science’s sake, [here's](https://english.stackexchange.com/questions/272353/was-tickle-someones-fancy-originally-a-double-entendre) a little something about the origins of the expression ‘whatever tickles your fancy.’ It’s delightful.
> 
> The second chapter should be up in a couple of days.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only wrote this because I don’t like the idea of Jack acting like a docile dog. Now we can all just pretend this fic never happened and I can get back to writing non-whumpy stuff. 
> 
> 'Kay cool.

 

Entering the parlour, Jack seemed to immediately relax in the comforting, warm environment. The heat from the fire cast an intimate glow around the room, melting away the tension in his muscles. He was always most at ease here, in her parlour, in her private domain. Safe from the world and its harsh judgements.

Watching him walk in, Phryne surmised that if he was wearing an undershirt, it might be the only dry garment on him. Everything else clung to him like a second skin.

And... she needed to stop staring at his arse.

There would be time for that later.

Breezing past him, she walked over to the drinks cart to pour their drinks. Turning, she noticed he was still standing, no doubt worried about getting her furniture wet. Placing the tumblers on the small wooden table, she heard a soft, rather pitiful sounding sneeze.

Really, he was as obstinate as a mule.

Straightening, she schooled her features into a neutral expression.

“Now then, let’s get you out of those wet things, Inspector.”

It was a good thing Jack had yet to take a drink, because she was certain that if he had, he would have spat it right out. The look on his face was part surprise, part indignation, though there was the briefest flicker of something else there. Unfortunately, it disappeared before she was able to identify it.

“Excuse me?” he sputtered, vividly reminding her of his reaction when she’d informed him that she’d brought a costume for him at Guy and Isabella’s engagement party. He took a small step back, as if contemplating his escape. It was rather adorable.

“You heard me, Jack Robinson. I may not be on active duty, but I still have well-honed  nursing skills, and I‘m not going to let you catch your death of cold. Not on my watch. Now strip,” she ordered, putting her hands on her hips for emphasis.

He sighed, crouching down to untie his shoelaces in defeat. Pleased, Phryne left him to grab some soft, fluffy towels from the upstairs linen cupboard.

Once procured, she closed the cupboard, the stack of neatly folded towels precariously balanced on her left hand. She paused a moment, then determinedly strode into her boudoir.

 

***

As she descended the stairs, Jack’s flickering shadow dancing on the hallway floor indicated he’d stayed, giving her a great surge of relief, and she decided not to ponder the thought.

With towels securely in hand, and a pair of deep blue silk pajamas on top, she re-entered the parlour with a purpose in mind.

Jack raised an eyebrow, but otherwise remained silent.

She was rather grateful for that, as she didn't think she was ready to address the issue of the sleepwear just yet.

Phryne set the towels onto the armchair, then gave him a quick once-over. She was pleased to note he’d managed to discard his soaked jacket and waistcoat, but was still holding both items in his hands, wondering where he should put them. He was also barefoot, a sight which caused her belly to somersault.

_Really, Phryne?_

_Well._ She knew what people said about men with big feet.

Big shoes to fill. 

Her heart warmed at the sight of his socks hanging over the grate in front of the fire.

“Now, honestly, Jack... When you were told to strip down in the barracks, I’m quite sure they didn’t mean this,” she pointed at his trousers and shirt, as she took both jacket and waistcoat from his cold fingers. He wrung his large hands in an attempt to keep the circulation going. She put his clothes on the hangers she’d grabbed from her wardrobe, then hung them from the outside edges of the mantle to dry.

He really was a beautifully sculpted man. He wasn't overly muscular, but what he did have was evenly and perfectly proportioned. He appeared to be wearing an undershirt beneath his almost transparent white collared shirt. Both layers clung tightly to his skin, highlighting the planes of muscle underneath; his nipples erect and puckered from the cold, standing in sharp contrast with the smooth planes of his chest. She bit her tongue hoping to hide her immediate and visceral reaction to this intimate revelation.

“At least when the sergeant ordered us to strip, I knew the intention behind it,” he grumbled, making sure to keep eye contact as he pulled his braces off of his broad shoulders.

Honestly, the man was too good at playing dirty.

Fortunately, she was quite familiar with that particular game, herself.

“Oh? And what of my intentions then, Jack?” She sauntered up to him, one hand playing with the leather strap of one of his braces as it hung limply at his side. Her thumb brushed his hip and his hand balled into a fist. “Aren’t they clear?” she asked him, looking into his eyes, her tongue darting out, wetting her upper lip. The familiar taste of her lipstick offered a stark contrast to the sudden turmoil in her abdomen, and the racing of her heart.

She noticed his eyes as they followed the path of her tongue.

“I’m never quite sure, Miss Fisher,” he rumbled from deep within his chest, his eyes a murky  blue.

Finding she was uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny, she decided to switch tactics.

“Well then,” she breathed. “Shall I help you with your tie, Inspector? Taking off wet clothes can be terribly tricky, when done all by yourself…”

Suiting actions to words, she untied the Windsor knot with practiced ease, pleased when the wet fabric slipped through the collar and hung loosely around his neck.

Gazing up at him from underneath her lashes, she reached for the top button of his shirt. He gently, but firmly, stilled her hands with a cold, clammy one of his own. He pressed her palms against his chest, his strong heartbeat vibrating against her delicate hands.

“Please. Don’t,” he croaked, briefly closing his eyes.

When he opened them up again, Jack appeared dazed, and instantly she knew where he had gone. The night of Guy and Isabella’s engagement party. That night she had felt closer to him than ever before, and not just physically. She’d been able to peel away a few of his carefully constructed layers, spotting a glimpse of Jack Robinson the man, and she had been both fascinated, and entirely overwhelmed.

“When Foyle… when you…” He swallowed. “I could have lost you.” His hand tightened subtly.

She moved her hands from his warm, damp shirt and clasping his hand in her own.

“But you didn't, Jack. I'm fine. And I'm here, and you can’t get rid of me that easily,” she quipped uncharacteristically and inappropriately, attempting to lighten the mood.

“I'm serious, Phryne.”

She knew he was.

He rarely used her first name, unless it was, well... serious. It sounded divine when he said it, and she couldn't help but wonder if he liked the taste of it on his tongue. She wondered if that was the reason why he used it so sparingly; that it would go against his ingrained sense of nobility to use it all the time. Because he feared it might blur the carefully drawn lines between them, and he would discover he enjoyed it too much?

For Phryne, it would never be too much. It could never be enough. It seemed that lately, not an hour, minute, or even a second went by that she didn't long for his hands on her body, her name in his mouth, and his cock nestled deep inside of her.

“Then the car accident... and then the night Fletcher took you, I thought…,” he trailed off, afraid to actually speak the thought aloud, that if he gave voice to it, it would somehow make it real.

She knew Jack loved her. Was in love with her. She had known now, for quite some time.

The thought terrified her.

_Didn't it?_

“I don’t how to be with you without always having the fear that, one day, I might lose you,” he confessed almost sadly. “Yet, I don’t know how to stay away.” 

Phryne Fisher wasn't a woman prone to crying, but she could feel the distinct pricking of tears at the corners of her eyes.

“I _do_ know that I’m tired of running, Phryne,” he continued, his body shaking. If it was due to the cold, she couldn’t be certain. “I don't know what all of this means, and I don't want you to feel obligated in any way. I… I thought it only fair that you should know.”

He kissed her hand softly before releasing it - his lips remarkably warm, the gesture making her weak in the knees.

They stood there in silence for what could have been hours.

“Jack?” she asked him, once she trusted her voice enough to speak.

“Yes?”

She pressed herself into him, moulding her body against his; she reached around, cradling his head in her small hands, fingers soothing the place where the butt of Mortimer’s gun had struck him only recently. His clothing was cold to the touch, but the body underneath those layers was molten, as if made of fire.

She was correct in her previous assumption; his hair was dry, but the dampness from his hat had allowed the curls at the back of his head to escape his neatly pomaded coiffure. She wrapped one lock around her finger, marvelling at its softness.

“Remember this?”

He let out a small chuckle.

“Unfortunately, I have the scar to remind me.”

“Don’t be facetious,” she chided, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“When Mortimer knocked you unconscious… for a split-second, I lost focus, Jack. For the tiniest moment, I didn’t care if he killed me.”

Jack opened his mouth to speak, but she shushed him, adding, “No, please let me finish.” He nodded, letting the weight of her words sink in.

“If I lost you, Jack… my life would still be worth living. I would carry on, I’m sure, but it would be...”

“Unbearable?” he supplied in a soft voice.

She nodded, immensely grateful that he once again, seemed to understand what her thoughts and feelings before she’d even finished her sentence. Her life would have carried on, she was certain of it. She would miss him terribly initially, but after awhile, she supposed she’d find a way to cope.

Even after the loss of Janey, she’d managed to find a way. She knew Jack held a piece of her heart, and if he had died, he would have taken it with him. Eventually, someone might come along who could come close to being the missing piece to her puzzle, but she doubted if it would ever feel like the perfect fit, the way Jack did.

She threaded her fingers through his hair, stroking the curve of his skull, skimming lightly over the raised lump from the impact of Mortimer’s gun. “You’re very prone to head injuries, Jack. You need to get out of that habit.” Her face was serious, but her eyes were sparkling as she smoothed down his soggy shirt.

“I have a thick skull, Miss Fisher,” he stated, then paused. When he received no contradiction from her, the corners of his mouth lifted. “I’m afraid you're not getting rid of me that easily, either.”

“I don't know what any of this means either, Jack.” She was plucking at his shirt, unable to look him in the eye. She felt naked, and frighteningly vulnerable, but safe. “But I _do_ find myself growing more fond of your tie collection with each passing day,” she confessed, as she let the wet silk run between her fingers.

Unbeknownst to her, his eyes were hot on her hands.

“Merely the ties, Miss Fisher?”

She raised her eyes to meet his, and the inquiring, yet decidedly mischievous tilt of his head, nearly did her in.

“Well. The man wearing them _might_ have something to do with it, Inspector.” She fidgeted with his collar, undoing the top button. When she realised he didn’t stop her, she proceeded to the next one.

His hands tentatively, oh so carefully, gently encircled her waist, as if he were afraid of breaking her, worried that she was merely a mirage, and that touching her would break the spell.

“So…,” she started, “Are we afraid of being together because we don't know what tomorrow might bring?”

He raised his eyes and looked at the ceiling, shadows and light playing hide-and-seek behind the strong contours of his face. His exposed throat called to her.

“That sounds unreasonable, not to mention illogical. No one knows what might happen in the next second, or hour or day, though I’m sure Miss Williams might argue the point.”

His hands settled on her lower back, thumbs rubbing in small circles. One hand became quite adventurous, touching the swell of her arse. She smiled.

“Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, then. To be afraid, together?”

He took a moment to answer. “I don't know, Miss Fisher. You can be rather frightening.”

She acted affronted, but it was only for show as she was glad that they had re-established the balance between them. Their banter made her feel giddy as a schoolgirl, and for once, she didn't care.

“Really, Inspector? A strong man such as yourself, frightened by innocent little me?”

“You're hardly innocent,” he growled, the sound throaty and low, his face suddenly serious as hands slid down to cup her buttocks, bunching the black crêpe de Chine of her trousers in his large palms.

He _squeezed_ , and a soft whimper escaped her lips. She could feel his arousal as it hardened between them; she rubbed herself against him like a cat in heat.

“Tell me, Jack. Are you scared right now?” she purred pressing her forehead against his, their breaths intermingling.

“Terrified, Miss Fisher,” he rasped.

She couldn't help her curious nature.

“Why?”

She sucked in a breath as he leaned in to murmur in her ear, his lips hot on her skin.

“I’m wondering who you had to kill in order to be in possession of Chinese embroidered silk pajamas at this hour, and how much time we have before underworld thugs come calling.”

She laughed. As he smirked and looked at her fondly, her breath caught.

“Don’t be silly, Jack. I’d already bought these for you because I--”

She barely had a second to register him closing the distance between them before his lips were on hers. Her eyes fluttered shut, heightening her other senses, allowing to enjoy every sensation of this man, her Jack. He was so warm against her, and she felt her body loosen with the desire to feel him closer, and closer still. He nipped at her bottom lip, and she sighed. Her hands pulled at his shoulders, clawing frantically at the wet fabric of his shirt, though it still wasn't enough.

What began as a gentle exploration quickly turned into something far more animalistic. After having denied themselves for so long, the feeling of his lips against hers was no longer enough. She traced his lower lip with her tongue; when he opened his mouth, she wasted no time in pushing her tongue inside to meet his. He growled and slanted his mouth more fully against hers, allowing his tongue to penetrate deeper. His hips followed suit, moving restlessly against her own in a mimicry of lovemaking that was so vivid, she groaned into his mouth.

His tongue speared between her lips. The beautiful hands on her arse were kneading, pressing, and pulling her to him as if he too, was suddenly overcome with the urgent need to merge their bodies through their layers of clothing. Jack, this Jack, the man who was always so composed, so in control, was crumbling in front of her very eyes, and it was mesmerizing. He was positively vibrating with pent-up frustration and heady desire.

Her hands busied themselves as they flung his wet tie out into the parlour.

She truly was rather fond of his ties. Especially when they were on the floor.

She moaned against his lips when his thumb traced the cleft between her voluptuous cheeks, coming dangerously close to touching her where she needed those long, dexterous fingers the most. Her cunt throbbed almost violently and painfully when he denied her.

She wanted to feel his feverish skin against hers, the slide of his chest against her bare breasts and the push and pull of his cock deep inside. Deciding she really had been patient long enough, she grabbed his shirt in both hands and pulled until the stitches gave away and buttons were sent flying all over her parlour. The sound of one of them skittering across the table made him still.

Tearing his lips away, his breathing was laboured as he stared at her, surprise evident in his eyes. His pupils dilated, and eyes hooded, her lipstick smeared across his mouth, and his hair mussed from where she’d run her hands through it.

He’d never looked more beautiful.

“Goodness, Inspector,” she panted as she touched his forehead with the back of her hand. “You’re perspiring. Are you sure you're not coming down with something?” she asked, pointedly looking down at his tented trousers, as one of his hands stealthily moved up to stroke the underside of her right breast.

He was so hard he was straining against the woollen fabric, and she felt suddenly overcome with the need to feel the weight of his cock in her mouth.

“I really couldn't say. But you do look feverish and a little bit hot yourself, Miss Fisher,” he grunted, his hand cupping her breast through her blouse. She arched into his touch and released the breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding when his thumb started to play with her swollen nipple.

“Only a _little_ , Jack?” she panted, her hands now tracing nonsensical patterns across his thin undershirt. She raked her nails across his chest and he gasped.

The look he gave her told her not to push her luck, but she could tell he was amused from the small twitch of his lips.

“I liked that shirt,” he pouted.

_Gods, the man was irresistible._

“I’ll buy you a new one.” It was her turn to growl, and she proceeded to kiss the pout right off of his hot, sensuous mouth.

His hands were restless, roaming all over her body, touching her wherever he could, leaving feverish trails of fire in his wake. The soft fabrics of her clothes rubbed against his palms, the friction almost too much to bear. His lips abandoned hers to kiss the elegant column of her throat, making her whimper both at the loss, and at the sensations his tongue provoked. He sucked on her pulse point, and when this no longer satisfied him, he roughly pulled her blouse to the side to lick her collarbone. She was almost certain he’d ripped off a few of her own buttons in retribution. Evidently, even Jack's patience had its limits.

Her head fell back in pleasured abandonment, his splayed hand on her back steadying her.

She moaned low and long when he took a nipple into his mouth, camisole and all, and she pressed his head into her chest, her hand fisting in his unruly curls, securing him there. Her other hand was busily tracing the waistband of his trousers and he snarled a curse against her skin when she cupped his cock.

He was so hot, heavy and hard, throbbing against her palm, and she wanted him inside of her. She was aching with the need to come undone around him.

Now.

When she stroked the length of him through his trousers, he released her breast on a groan and, breathing hard, looked down to where she was playing with his cock. The muscles in his neck strained. However, when her fingers scrabbled at his trousers fastenings, he almost choked on his own breath.

“Please, Phryne. Please, stop,” he gasped, voice hoarse and more than a little desperate.

She immediately stilled. They were both panting, gasping, and looking more than a little dishevelled. She looked up, worried she’d somehow hurt him. Afraid that he might leave her. Again.

“I’m sorry, Jack. Wasn't it--?”

“ _Gods_ , yes. I mean, no. I didn't mean stop. Well, I did, it's just…,” He rubbed a hand over his face. He blushed, and it was adorable. “Could we possibly continue this elsewhere?” he asked, and he gave a faint nod towards the closed parlour doors.

She understood what he wanted, what felt safe for him; he was a more traditional man, after all. Later, she would unwrap him here. On the chaise longue, against the mantlepiece, on her knees in front of the fire, the carpet chafing her skin as he would take her from behind…

She cupped his cheek and he leaned into her touch.

“Of course, Jack.”

He lovingly tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, even though she knew it was a lost cause. If her hair didn’t look extremely tousled within the next few hours she'd consider the evening highly unsuccessful, indeed.

“Is… Is everything alright?”

She knew he didn't mean just now. She knew what he was asking.

_Is this alright?_

_Are we alright?_

_Will this be alright?_

She didn't think she could say the words, but she could show him.

She pressed a tender kiss to his lips, hoping to convey the words her mouth could not yet speak. He slumped against her, and she hugged him tight.

“Oh Inspector, I assure you, I feel positively inflamed,” she whispered in his ear as her hands cupped his magnificent arse.

He chuckled as he pulled away from her tight embrace. He’d schooled his features, but  wasn't fooling anyone.

“Perhaps you should go have a lie down, Miss Fisher,” he suggested in his best Detective Inspector voice.

“Yes, that might be best. Perhaps you could join me, Inspector. Keep an eye on me?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him as she held him to her.

“How about _two_ eyes, Miss Fisher?”

“ _Mmm_ , I’d like that even more, Jack,” she purred, grabbing his hand and leading him out of the parlour and up the stairs.

 


End file.
